Interlude: Continuing the Generic Logan Romance
by Silly Mamma
Summary: The Generic Plot continues to drive the action as our hero and heroine are propelled towards a meeting in NY


**Not mine. Don't sue.**

It's not quite the second act but we're getting there. Fear not, I promise you. Logan and Generica will soon arrive at the X-mansion. Logan will introduce her to the team and Generica will beat his socks off in the Danger room. There's just one hurdle to overcome. That is to get them from the bar to Westchester. And that requires motivation. This interlude provides it.

Recall, if you will, that nearly every standard heroine arrives in New York nearly at death's door. She gets rushed into the infirmary under Hank's care while the X-Men get to comment on how upset Logan is at the threat to this new--and special--woman in his life.

Deliciously angsty, isn't it? But we have to get there from here. Apologies in advance for those who were hoping to see more of our main characters. They're in here. Sort of. More importantly, the Plot That Must Be Followed reigns supreme. And that is the core of writing Generic Fiction. 

I hope you will enjoy.

* * *

Carnage covers the road. Bodies lie here and there, strewn around, collapsed on top of each other making small random hills of corpses. A major battle has clearly taken place here. And, if you listen carefully, you'll hear the sound of a lone motorbike dopplering itself out of this scene of destruction. The propellers of action, the cause of this violence have left this place. Only the twisted bodies remain, starting to shimmer in the bright moonlight near the wrecked skeleton of a large black helicopter.

Surprisingly, there's little gore or blood to be seen. Even the corpses' eyes are closed although no one has stayed to tenderly shut the lids of the departed. Each dead man wears an unusual uniform: identical black suits of coat and tie, marked only by red slashes showing the locations of his mortal wounds.

Do not cry for the departed. These are not the remains of mortal men. These are the bodies of storybook thugs and even now they start to melt back into the primal aether. Do not scream and weep over what has been lost. What is gone will soon return. They may take the form of security guards or officials. They may return as faceless samurai. The aether that so recently created them now slowly reabsorbs them, canibalizing their remains so that new threats may soon emerge.

Do not fear the pain of mothers or wives. These corpses have none. The narrative is their wife, the plotline their womb. No letters will be written, no late-night phonecalls will be made. No wife will wait at home wondering if her husband will return and when. She will never face the awful knowledge and the despair that must follow. She will not have to rebuild her life, seek help for her fatherless children, begin the process of starting over after loss. The carnage that occured tonight is blessedly not real. It is only the violence of the world of superheroes. Many fall but few will truly die.

And even the helicopter begins to soften, its edges stretching blackly into the night. Created from necessity, these props are now done. It is how they were called into being that matters now.

Do you see the bar? Perhaps you were paying too much attention to the corpses vaporizing to take notice. It's over there, on the other edge of the parking lot. There was a fight there tonight. Or, to be more precise, a near-fight. An incident. Now, the bar is closed up tight, doors locked and windows bolted. But earlier, some visitors were indiscreet. Phonecalls were made. Tales were told. And rumor travelling faster than light or physics made its precise way to important ears. A black helicopter was dispatched. A real fight took place.

The encounter was intense. First with guns. And then hand-to-claw. Hearts beat fast. Breaths exhaled sharply. Bullets tore flesh. Claws ripped. Blood spilled. Instructions were clear. Take the targets alive. Orders be damned.

Who were they? Why were they targets? Who were the attackers? Why did they attack? Somehow everyone seemed to know, but the answers were all different. Dirty Mutants. Department H. Disturbing the Peace. Weapon X. Friends of Humanity. Sentinel Recruitment. Genosha. The reasons did not actually matter. Only the moment, only the attack mattered. Reason evaporates until it need never have existed. We can always retcon later. The Plot will reveal the truth when the time is ripe.

Only two left the scene: one driving the motor bike, the other gravely wounded, but holding on to the driver and to life itself. They left the carnage behind as they sped off. Can we hear them still? No. The engine sounds have faded too far into the distance. They are heading north, towards New York, towards an institute run by a friend. One drives. One heals. Both travel. Both are gone.

Wisps of blackness continue to rise from the shapeless puddles that no longer resemble men. The helicopter boils slowly away into the night. The hours pass. Finally, the moonlight shines down upon a road and a parking lot marked only by oil stains and empty beer bottles, cigarette butts and tattered candy wrappers. Nothing else remains.

The wind, as if by cue, begins to blow softly and all is done.


End file.
